The act’s central event is the madrigal duet, during which the titular couple’s fateful bond is surreptitiously sealed under constrained circumstances of social decorum and potential conflict. The impeller of the action, however, is Capulet. He’s giving the ball, and for important reasons: the coming-out of his daughter and her introduction to a favored prospective husband. He strives to control events, and for the nonce succeeds. In a sense, this is his act. He must be a dominant presence.

This is just the sort of scene, in just the sort of style, that (judging by results) contemporary interpreters either don’t want to bother with or else, as in this case, go to considerable bother of the wrong sort. The act is much taken up with exposition and with “minor” characters; its most famous numbers (the Queen Mab ballad and Juliette’s Waltz Song) are incidental to the action; its structure is simple and determined by conventions long bypassed. But simplicity of structure and conventionality of form—deadly as the combination can sometimes be—have at least one virtue, namely, that everyone, performers and audience alike, can forget about structures and conventions and direct their attention to what goes on inside them. In setting boundaries, they grant freedoms. The freedoms are of interpretive nuance, the small expressive events that make up the flow of life within a taken-for-granted framework. These events are musical, vocal, and behavioral, and since in determining what accounts for their effects we really cannot separate these elements out, I’ll just run through the act considering all at once, referring at times to the earlier production but trying to keep the focus on the current one. (I am reporting on the performance of Jan. 17, 2017, supplemented by a viewing of Act 1 on the videocast of Apr. 14, 2017.) Then I’ll enter a few remarks on what past standards might give us by way of a gauge for comparison.

As per current custom, the overture is pantomimed, ensuring eye-dominance from the start. The staging choices are obvious, so the only accomplishment is that of distraction from the music. The single set, by Michael Yeargan, is a reasonable representation of a Veronese piazza, which means that it works well in Act III, Sc. 2 (Stephano’s song, the duel, and the ensemble finale); adapts with some awkwardness to Act V (we have only to overlook things like Roméo bashing in the emblematic standing set-piece of the doorway to the tomb, when any fool can see that he has only to step around it to gain entrance); is practicable but funny-looking as a ballroom or reception room in the present case; and quite implausible for Acts II and IV. This makes it a distinct improvement on the astrolab moonings of the previous production, and though its core function is clearly one of fisco-techno convenience, at least it isn’t High Concept. With the piazza dressed by Catherine Zuber’s colorful, periodish costumes and Jennifer Tipton’s ever-keen lighting, the choral prelude, well-sung, was successful in the theatre. Like many such static episodes, it registered poorly on TV—closeups and panning, the camera’s only resources in these circumstances, are not helpful.